‘No, we are not. Our motive is, as always, selfish. We merely wish to enjoy you more.’
Oglethorpe looked around the garden. It was almost dusk, an auspicious time for autumnal thoughts.
‘Then you needs must be quick,’ he said, regarding Ellen’s still-supple, bending back, recalling what, in days past, the sight might have led to. ‘It seems I am a dwindling asset …’
‘There is time,’ the Elf reassured him, and then stopped time in a most Arthurian way. ‘Observe.’
The garden and Godalming and – for all he knew, the World – were held within a second. Beams of evening sunshine were poised, suspended in glorious flight. Before them, amidst these golden insubstantial pillars, had appeared a door.
Theophilus peered within. The whole wide Universe seemed inside – only better. Close to he saw a replica Godalming – more saracenic and gothic than he was used to but improved and how it ought to be. Further in was London, similarly transformed; crystal walled and festooned with skulls. Dark forest lapped against the City, watered by purple minarets which reached up to pierce the clouds. Beyond, the scene extended without limit, reproducing every place he had ever graced or wished to see. Therein lay hope – even confidence – of finding … everything.
‘Behold our home,’ said the Elf, ‘our personal variant of Earth. It has never known the Null. Because of your great service you have a dispensation. You may join us there.’
A waft of spice came from the view. Theophilus inhaled – and his mind blossomed with a kaleidoscope of pictures. By some unknown mechanism he was told.
There were wars within that world: but either victories or glorious last stands, not inconclusive tramps through mud with butchery to follow. He sensed sharp-faced Elf girls who hated the will-she/won’t-she game as much as he when young. He honestly admitted to himself he would like just one more long night of warm-hearted fun, when love was new and jadedness no problem. He longed immoderately for wine in good company when thirsty, for the thrill of holding one’s new-born child and then the growth of their innocent, total-trusting, childish affections. He wanted to be free of his own, Null-tainted, world’s touch, to spit on all the compromises, to no longer be so … shabby.
‘Is this offer … approved of?’ Theophilus spoke hesitantly. It seemed amiss to prise the gift horse’s mouth open but they were talking serious business here.
‘At the very highest level,’ the Elf replied. ‘By that Judge against whom there is no appeal. The Deity feels your long slavery to duty has earned you a holiday.’
‘I could do with it,’ conceded Oglethorpe – and in eventually owning up to frailty, shrugged off a heavy yoke.
‘There you are then. In fact, the more we consider, newcomer, the more likely it seems your parents were guided in naming you. Theophilus: “the beloved of God” – as per the Grecian form of monkey-speak. Observe how two – and only two – of your holy books are dedicated to an individual, and both to a previous holder of your name.’
‘ “Luke” and “Acts”,’ said Theophilus, accepting the fact but not the implications. ‘I know.’
‘Knowing or not, you were marked out as the target for suchlike rare honours. There are signs therein for those who would see. Be glad. Surrender to the sweet caress of fortune and just … agree.’
Oglethorpe couldn’t straightaway oblige. A whole life history of restraint weighed down the opposing scale.
‘How long could I stay?’
‘For a while,’ said the Elf. ‘Perhaps for a long while before we evict you. Meanwhile you shall act as you wish without consequence. For that sweet span you may forget all about “sin”.’
‘And then?’
‘You will return to the judgement that all your species must face, and answer for your earthly deeds against a set of standards that we are exempted from. Ellen will find you dead in that seat, peacefully passed away whilst in sight of her. She will mourn, as your kind tend to do, but …’ once more he consulted the upper air, ‘yes, I thought as much: you will meet again: this time never to part.’
Theophilus was more than content. It was all he’d ever asked of life – the promise of justice, for good or ill. There were those who’d sneered at it and him, jeering that ‘justice’ was extinct. They no longer looked so sleek and clever compared to simpletons such as he. Loyalty wasn’t only cause for gales of laughter after all.
He need hesitate no more. Accepting his reward, Theophilus Oglethorpe stepped forward and through the door, to prepare for paradise in Elfland.
Epilogue
‘…On his quitting this place; he sold the Manor of Westbrook to Sir Theophilus Oglethorpe, Knt. son of Sutton Oglethorpe Esq. of Oglethorpe in the Parish of Bramham in the West-Riding of Yorkshire; who, for his loyalty to King Charles I. was fined by the Parliament in the sum of 20,0001. for which his Estates were sequestered, and afterwards forfeited and given to General Fairfax … Sir Theophilus his son was bred to arms, and fought under the Duke of Monmouth in the affair at Bothwell Bridge, where a tumultuary insurrection of the Scots was suppressed, 22 June, 1679. He was afterwards Lieutenant Colonel in the Duke of York’s Troop of Horse Guards, and, being first Equerry to King James II, and a Major General in his army, commanded a party of Horse at Sedgemore fight, where the Duke of Monmouth was defeated, 6 July 1685.
…having represented the Borough of Haslemere in the Parliaments of 10 and 12 William III. Å 1698 and 1700-1, departed this life in the 50th year of his age, on the 10th of April Å 1702; leaving Eleanor his Wife (daughter of Richard Wall Esq. of Rathkien in the County of Tipperary) surviving, who died 19 June 1732m. He was buried in the Parish Church of St. James, Westminster, where the following Inscription was put up to his memory:
“Hic jacet THEOPHILUS OGLETHORPE, Eques auratus, ab atavo Vicecomite Eborum, Normanno victore, ducens originem. Cujus armis, ad pontem BOTHWELLIENSEM, succubuit SCOTUS: Nec non SEDGMORIENSI Palude fusi Rebelles. Qui, per varios casus et rerum discrimina, magnanimam erga Principem et Patriam fidem, sed nec temere, sustinuit. Obiit Londini, Anno 1701, œtat. 50.”’
[‘Here lies Theophilus Oglethorpe, glittering cavalier … At Bothwell Bridge the Scots were defeated by his troops and he also stood firm at the Battle of Sedgemoor Marsh. He maintained, but not blindly, high-minded loyalty towards monarch and country throughout diverse events and various circumstances. He died in London, in the year 1701, aged 50.’]
From the ‘Victoria County History of Surrey’
Theophilus was laid to rest on the 14th April 1702, on the north side of the altar in St. James’s, past worrying about conspiracy-distracted Eleanor getting his date and place of death wrong.
His memorial, re-sited, survives and may still be seen, looking down upon the antics in St. James’s above the south gallery door. Pilgrims and respect-payers shall have their reward, but for Theophilus himself they look in vain.
On the night of the fourteenth of October 1940 new enemies of the nation destroyed his grave, exhuming him with high explosive. Therefore, Theophilus Oglethorpe has no known grave.
If you’ve enjoyed this book and would like to read more great SF, you’ll find literally thousands of classic Science Fiction & Fantasy titles through the SF Gateway.
For the new home of Science Fiction & Fantasy …
For the most comprehensive collection of classic SF on the internet …
Visit the SF Gateway.
www.sfgateway.com
Also by John Whitbourn
The Downs-Lord Triptych Trilogy
1. Downs-Lord Dawn(1990)
2. Downs-Lord Day(2000)
3. Downs-Lord Doomsday(2002)
Other Novels
A Dangerous Energy (1992)
Popes and Phantoms (1992)
To Build Jerusalem (1995)
Royal Changeling (1998)
Frankenstein’s Legions (2011)
DEDICATION
TO: THEOPHILUS OGLETHORPE, WHO, IN JULY 1692, WISELY
SAID:
&n
bsp; ‘DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES…’
AND:
D.D. (T’BED LAZY II! AND CALLING PRIG!) & D; D; & E. N.
AND:
KING CHARLES II, WHO SAID:
‘HE COULD NOT BELIEVE G*D WOULD DAMN ONE OF HIS CREATURES FOR TAKING A LITTLE IRREGULAR PLEASURE BY THE WAY.’
AND:
IN KEEN ANTICIPATION OF OUR OWN ‘RESTORATION’ AND DELIVERANCE FROM THE HANDS AND LAWS OF PO-FACED PURITANS.
John Whitbourn (1958–)
John Whitbourn is an archaeology graduate and has been a published author since 1987. His first book, A Dangerous Energy, won the BBC/Victor Gollancz Fantasy Novel Prize in 1991. Whitbourn’s novels and short stories tend to focus on alternative histories set in a ‘Catholic’ universe. Key characteristics of his works are wry humour, the reality of magic and a sustained attempt to reflect on the interaction between religion and politics on a personal and social scale.
Copyright
A Gollancz eBook
Copyright © John Whitbourn 1998
All rights reserved.
The right of John Whitbourn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This eBook first published in Great Britain in 2013 by
Gollancz
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane
London, WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK Company
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 1 473 20092 0
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
www.orionbooks.co.uk
The Royal Changeling Page 30
